Above The Hearth
by polotiz
Summary: Christmas Fic: ONE-SHOT - Dedicated to all the people who miss someone at Christmas, because sometimes it's just not everything it's cracked up to be without them. WARNING: Character Death (not J/M)


**Above the Hearth**

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own them, still trying to...but TNT and Tess Gerritsen own them, so if you see them, can you tell them I am interested?

**Rating:** K+

**Category:** Angst/Tragedy

**Pairing: **Pre-established Rizzles

**Warnings: **CHARACTER DEATH. Not the two leading ladies, but one nonetheless.

**Summary: **Dedicated to all the people who miss someone at Christmas, because sometimes, it's just not everything it's cracked up to be without them. Christmas Fic, One-Shot.

**Author's Note :** I wasn't originally going to post this, but given I'm 7 fics in, it's a bit point-of-no-return, isn't it? My only request with this one is, to go easy on the feedback. If you don't like it, or think it's totally OOC, or crap, I'm happy to take it down... and I will in a heartbeat. Just... be gentle about it please :)

T

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><p>Above The Hearth<p>

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><p>It was well into the evening when she found herself there, inches from where a light snowfall was blanketing the small courtyard around her. The door closed behind the sixty fifth version of <em>Silent Night<em> she'd heard since the evening started, and she breathed a weary sigh of relief, unconsciously flexing her neck left and right, attempting to move around the extreme tension that, these days, had become a permanent fixture across her shoulders.

She took a step forward, further out from the back door, out from the slight overhang that shielded it from the elements. Leaning against one of the columns she let it take her weight as she slid down to the ground, the fingers of her left hand clasped around her glass of wine, her right around a small plate which she pushed away from her as soon as she reached her seated position, as far as her reach would allow.

She'd had enough.

She could hear the others inside, laughing, over that damned card game they were playing. It was the reason she was out there in the first place. She promised she would cook the dinner. She never promised to play that stupid game.

Lifting her head to the sky she closed her eyes, feeling the tiny intricate ice formations float softly onto her cheeks, lips, hair, neck… some brushing past her skin like a feather-light touch, and for a moment, she tried to imagine it was hers...

A sigh left her lips, and she opened her eyes again, chasing the puff of steam until it disappeared upward into the night. She found herself immediately thankful that Maura had chosen not to hang the Christmas lights on this side of the house. After all, there were enough decorations everywhere else, most of them her doing, the age-old traditions that required lights in certain places, candles in others, and a ridiculous obsession with tinsel on mantelpieces that Jane would never understand... but did it anyway.

But right now, she needed nothing more than Christmas gone.

The soft sound of a latch opening preceded the familiar voice from the entrance to the back door.

"Hi."

The word danced lightly amongst the snowflakes, falling softly to her feet. Even without turning around Jane could picture her - how she would be standing - leaning against the door frame, arms folded, head tilted, waiting...

Jane lowered her head.

But she didn't answer.

"You should really try one, Jane." Jane knew Maura was referring to the pastry that currently sat on that tiny plate…. her ticket out of the house lest she be pestered endlessly to have one.

After all, she _did_ make them.

"They are delicious. Very… authentic." The subtle crack in Maura's voice when she spoke again was as clear as day, even though she attempted to disguise it in her softer tone.

Jane felt her own chest tightening in response, but still didn't turn around.

That was what they had been reduced to, now.

Even so Jane could still picture her - she knew she would standing, resolutely still behind her, waiting. She knew she would wait all night, out in the cold with her… and Jane knew that if there were enough space in her heart amidst all the pain, she would love her for it.

But there was no room. There was nothing.

"You should go adjudicate." She said instead, not turning around. Her voice sounded cracked and raspy, even to her own ears. It surprised her. "Someone has to make sure Tommy doesn't cheat."

"Jane-"

Jane could tell what was on the edge of the way Maura said her name. She knew it like she knew breathing. But she didn't let her. She couldn't.

"I'm fine, Maur, really." She said abruptly, too much so - knowing it would hurt, but unable to shield her from it. "I just… need to be alone right now."

Maura didn't move right away, and with a sigh she passed a weary hand over her eyes, pressing her fingers outward along the ridges of her eye sockets.

"Please..?" She whispered.

Yes, this... this is what they had come to.

And Jane knew Maura was upset, she knew because despite everything they were still tethered together in a subconscious, _subatomic _way that was both comforting and intimidating but tonight, like every other night since, was simply… painful.

"Okay." Came the voice again, but more quietly, speaking through what history indicated was a losing battle.

Barely a moment passed before Jane felt the soft weight of her winter coat as it was draped gently around her shoulders, and she knew then that Maura had brought it out with her, in case this exact situation arose... or perhaps knowing it would, and coming out anyway. She felt the touch against her neck, fingertips gliding over her right collarbone as Maura tucked the garment over her body, down between her back and the column she was leaning against. Somewhere, in the last remaining active part of Jane's mind she was aware of the unique scent of spices and soft perfume she wore and knew she was leaning in, closer to her.

"I love you, Jane." The gentle whisper caressed her ear, before she added- "I miss you."

And Jane thought she felt her lips brush against her temple, but she couldn't be sure.

Maura retreated into the house, and Jane held onto the moment as long as she could, wrapping it around her underneath her coat, shielding herself from the lilting voice of Michael Buble singing _'__Let it Snow'_ , until the door finally closed and it was silent.

And she was alone.

Jane stared into the wine in her hands, swirling it slowly in her palm. Everyone else would be drinking egg nog, but now the night had begun to weigh too heavily on her, and she couldn't bring herself to join in any more. Not the game, not the egg nog... and definitely not the music.

Not even Maura.

Tears pricked her eyes and she glanced back up at the night sky, shrouded grey by heavy clouds, the voice in her heart as clear as it were yesterday.

_'Janie, I- I __want to make it to Christmas…'_

She bit down on her lower lip at the memory, so hard she could feel the splitting of skin and the metallic taste of her own blood mingling with the saliva in her mouth. Somehow, it brought her satisfaction, and she lifted her glass, washing the evidence down with the stinging burgundy until she could only taste tannin and pepper.

'_Don't be silly Ma, you'll make it. And you'll still be around when TJ is old enough to tell us that Santa Claus doesn't exist.'_

It had been the worst lie she had ever told.

And worst part, the worst _fucking _part was that she hadn't even realised she was telling it.

A tremor started to form in her fingers as she reached into the pocket of her coat, pulling a small object out, a porcelain figure bound by a tiny string of gold. She turned it over in her palm. A thrum, low and deep began in her stomach and she couldn't identify it – but it spelled danger to her.

That ornament… that stupid ornament… The one given to her in that bed, the request to hang it on the Christmas tree for her... for _her_. And she had looked so small… so small and frail and afraid as the ornament had dropped into Jane's palm… the Archangel Raphael she had said, so close to explaining further when Jane had cut her off with an angry scoff. Jane had told her she could put it on the tree herself, when she got better, and she had tossed the ornament onto the small table beside her bed.

And there had been that smile... that soft, smile, after which she simply said 'I'll try.'

Jane clenched her jaw. She had left. She'd kissed her on the cheek and left and gone to work. Because murderers don't stop every time a detective's mother gets sick, do they?

But everyone could see it, _everyone… _except for her.

And she was too busy being angry at her for being unwell, that she wasn't listening to the facts. She wasn't just unwell. She was _dying_.

The anger burned at Jane. She _should_ have gone and bought that damned tree that very day, after Rafael. She should have blown her paycheck and bought up every single ornament she could find – loaded up the car with endless streams of tinsel and piles of gifts and she should have taken it all into her room at the hospital and decorated with Tommy and Frankie and Maura and laughed and joked and sung. She should have taken leave from work like Maura suggested and made it the 25th December every day... Every _fucking_ day... changed every damned calendar, watch, phone and clock, _everywhere_.

Jane pressed her fingers around the tiny figure as a stray tear burned down her cheek, catching her by surprise. Now she just wanted to wipe that pious look off Raphael's miserable face. She wanted to throw him against a wall, see his delicate little body shatter into a million pieces like her own heart was shattered.

Because that damned ornament,.. that damned fucking thing had still been by that hospital bed where Jane had left it, when she got the call. At 2:30am on a Saturday morning…

Before Maura. Before Frankie, Before Tommy.

And there, in those minutes alone, was the first, and the last time she had cried, when she had seen the ornament, by the bed but now resting on a simple exercise book… Inside of which was written a lifetime of love, memories and traditions, wrapped in lists and ingredients and portions and goddamn fucking preheat settings and _stirring _instructions.

The Rizzoli Christmas dinner, deconstructed.

And then Maura had arrived, then Frankie, face ashen and drawn, and they had barely a moment together before all three of them had to hold Tommy back as he wailed, long and hard into the room. And _that_ was the moment Jane felt herself shut down.

She heard another laugh from inside the house followed by a short amused shriek – she thought it might be Lydia – and the thrum inside became louder, so now she could hear it in her ears over the burn in her stomach... and part of her was relieved because someone had just turned up the music, assaulting the still night with yet another cover of fucking _Sleighbells_.

Drawing the collar of her coat up around herself Jane attempted to press her shoulders against her ears, drowning out the agonising music that threatened to tear whatever shell was left of her to shreds.

It wasn't their fault.

They felt it more early on – they felt it more and cried openly and sought comfort in each other just as she retreated inside herself, determined to stay strong and confident and constant… focused on keeping them together… holding it together… Because in the end, _she, _of all of them, had been the one who had let her down, hadn't she?

She had never said how much she admired the strength, the courage in the face of all this, how she was sorry for being an insensitive ass, that she was sorry given everything that _she_ was the one who still had to be comforted by the woman who was so sick.. so frail.. and how the thought of never having the door to her apartment burst open with company so unwanted at the time, now made her stick to her stomach.. and how the reality reality felt far worse than that. But perhaps the worst part... the _worst_ part, was that at 2:30am on a Saturday morning there had been nobody there to soothe her fears, or comfort her, or tell her it was okay to let go.

No.

Jane had done none of those things, and instead, all that had been left for her to give had been her funeral. Her funeral and the unspoken promise of today – that she would make it work, she would cook up a storm. She would hold onto her heart and bury it away and follow those instructions in that exercise book and remind Tommy and Frankie, that no matter what their Ma was still with them… if not in body than at least in the Christmas Cannoli.

And she did it – she did it and she made it and it was almost so... so real to them… As real as she could make it. And they were singing, and laughing, and drinking like they had every year before.

And all night they toasted to that beautiful urn above the hearth… framed by pictures of her, of the five of them; Frankie, Tommy, Maura, Jane, and her, and topped with a small santa hat.

Which had been Jane's touch, of course. Even as it broke her, every time she looked at it.

Because she also never got to thank her for raising them, or to say she loved her, or to say goodbye.

The thrum became a roar and Jane realised she could hear the blood rushing through her ears, hear the grief envelop her like a giant wave, and suddenly she was suffocating.. choking... drowning... and the wine glass, still half full was propelled against the far wall, shattering apart, wine spattered against brick, running thinly down to the ground.

The first sob erupted from her body before she could help it. It was too hard, and she was too tired of being strong, of trying to make everything work, knowing as successful as she may have been tonight, she had been a failure when it counted.. when it really counted. Balling her hands into fists she doubled over, shaking, unable to draw the next breath after the last. Her face was pulled into a tight grimace, eyes wide, she sandwiched her fists between her forehead and her knees, elbows pressing so hard into her stomach the discomfort offered her release for only a moment, before her lungs begin screaming for air and the noisy sound of her agonising inhale lurched into the night air.

She stumbled forward out into the courtyard, into the snow. Now the tears were relentless, burning down her cheeks as much as her stomach, her fists, her chest burned.

"Ma…!" She cried into the icy carpet under her bare hands, before whispering it again, a broken plea in the night. "Ma..."

Her knees and elbows folded and her forehead dropped into the snow, Rafael still clutched in her left hand , pressed against her heart, and for the first time she could hear only the silence answering – because there was nobody else who could.

She was gone.

"Ohh…God…" Sobs turned to desolate hiccups and she could do nothing about the agonising strain in her abdomen as her body fought between the inhale and exhale. "Ma.. I'm so, so sorry.."

Her grief raged messily, and loudly, drowning out the music and the laughter and the singing and the dinner and the egg nog and the Cannoli… drowning out Christmas itself, until dark red began to stain the ice under her nose and she realised too late it was bleeding – like it did when she was a little girl and became stressed or angry... knowing the only way it would stop would be when her mother wrapped her in her arms - the only time she would let her – and she would cradle her with a tissue against her face until the flow subsided and she fell asleep.

But she was gone.

And all the memory did was draw out more pain, and finally Jane collapsed completely into the snow, knees drawn to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut as the blood slid down her cheek in accelerating droplets, flowing to the ground, a silent metronome of the agony she was simply unable to contain any more.

_You're gonna die here, _she thought. _You're going to bleed out onto the snow and you're gonna die._

"Jane?"

She missed the first call of her name.

_"Jane?"_

This time, it registered like a crackling voice on a radio frequency two wavelengths out of sync... just like Jane's body felt within the real world, until suddenly she became aware of the warmth of a hand at her cheek and a soft pressure against her nose. A tissue… or… a towel, was bunched up against her right nostril, slowly soaking up the blood now teeming from it.

"It's Maura... you're okay Jane, it's okay. I've got you."

The voice was breath. It was breathing. Slowly, Jane turned towards the sound, eyes closed, voice weak.

"..Maura?"

That same hand, warm and gentle reached down and squeezed her hand, before resting back again against her cheek, her forehead, then her chest. "I'm here, Jane. I'm here."

It was the closest they had been since before the funeral.

It's was enough to make her want to cry all over again.

And she did, lips contracting into a grimace as sobs silently wracked her body, blood spitting out from her nose at the pressure of them, staining her shirt.

"Oh... Jane.."

The hand left her cheek again and slid underneath her, rolling her away from her curled position and upward, against a waiting chest. The hand returned to her face, pressure against her nose holding fast.

"Maura…" She sobbed over the tissue, into Maura's shoulder. "She didn't know… G-God.. I let-…I let her… s-she died and she didn't know…"

But Maura shook her head, pulling Jane against her body tightly, as if she were on the edge of a cliff and Maura's arms were the only thing stopping her from jumping… Jane's ear was tucked above the beating heart she could identify like a fingerprint, and she realised in that moment, it drowned out the songs and the laughter and the pain in her chest, and it was the only thing she wanted to listen to, ever again.

Maura held her, there in the snow, rotating tissues pressed to her nose as she bled and sobbed until her body was spent and her soul not far behind. Jane felt a lifetime's worth of kisses pressed to her temple, her cheeks, her hair, arms encircling her so completely she wondered if maybe… just maybe Maura might be able to hold all her broken pieces together long enough that they might know how to mend.

After what felt like an eternity Jane finally looked up at Maura, cradled safely in her arms. Maura had removed the tissue from her face and the lack of stickiness on Jane's upper lip told her the bleeding has subsided, and instead she was smiling softly down at her, gently brushing her cheek with the backs of her fingers.

Jane blinked slowly, feeling immeasurably tired.

"She knows, Jane." Maura finally said, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, her own quivering at an intimacy Jane had denied them for weeks, but felt as fresh and strong as if it were only yesterday. "I _promise_ you she knows."

From anyone else the words would have been nothing more than awful platitudes. Things said to people by people who have no idea what grief is, what loss is. But because it was her, because it was _Maura, _Jane knew it was the truth.

And she knew that one day, when it was far less painful, she might ask her for more.

But not tonight.

A quiet sigh escaped Jane's body and she felt herself melting further against Maura's frame. With a shift of weight Maura rocked Jane forward, tucking her head into the crook of her neck, her free hand now threaded through the dark, tangled locks.

"…Maura?" Jane's voice was muffled against the collar of Maura's coat, but she heard her, touching her lips lightly to her forehead.

"I'm here." The words repeated, as she continued rocking her gently, the snow falling softly around them. They were no less comforting the second time, perhaps, this time even more so. "I'm here Jane."

"It's Christmas…"

Jane felt Maura's breath shorten against her shoulder, and she knew why. With a tentative hand, unpractised after so may weeks she touched her cheek, feeling the slippery and warm texture of tears under her fingertips.

"It is." She said, leaning into Jane's touch.

It was their first Christmas, together.

And here Maura was, cradling her, rocking her and her broken heart to sleep, out in the snow.

"Maur?" She whispered.

"Hmm?" The warm voice hummed at Jane's ear, the very sound enough to drag her heavy lids down, unable to open again.

And it was the first time, since that call at 2:30am on a Saturday, she had felt anything other than grief.

"I love you.."

And clutching Rafael closer to her heart, Jane sent a silent, unpractised prayer to her mother. One of thanks, and love, and the promise she would never be forgotten.


End file.
